


the knife that cuts you free

by deadlight_s (scamsHan)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scamsHan/pseuds/deadlight_s
Summary: Medical Examiner Dr. Mike Hanlon returns to his home of Derry for a funeral. At least he thought it was a funeral. No, it’s a reunion. It’s been twenty years since he’d seen Richie Tozier, the last time being when they were 18 and both wearing deep maroon graduation robes. It was different now, the gangly teen having grown up into an esteemed detective. There’s something soft about family reunion. That is, until one dead body shows up. No, two. Three? Surely, it can’t be more than three.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh (background), Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris (background)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 46





	1. turn your head toward the storm that's surely coming along

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you crave a long form slow burn hanbrough fic so much you just have to write it yourself!! Shout out to my friends rants (saintsrow2) and kat (playedwright) for being my sound board for this. 
> 
> Double shout out to kat for also being my beta cuz lord knows I need one!

The fog rolls in the moment the landing wheels of Mike’s plane touch down in Bangor. So much for a warm welcome. Though perhaps the warmth came from the back of his mind, familiarity. The kind that sits in your nose as you breathe in the wet air of home, or at least the wet air of the closest airport adjacent to home. The metaphor is lost on him.

His briefcase is heavy on his shoulders as he makes his way to the baggage claim. He wants a bagel and a shower. The terminal provided neither of these things, the inconvenience might as well have been misery. Mike never liked flying and he wasn’t about to start now. He can hear the creak and pop of his knees as he walks. He’s much too old for Coach.

The carousel at baggage claim station E begins to whir and spin just as he steps up to claim his bag. The crowd surrounding the station has a gentle hum, apparently two other flights were also waiting for their bags. Is he in Hell? No, hell would’ve had better decor.

A buzzing in his pocket reminds him that he had spent the past two hours sans contact with the outside world. A knot worms it’s way in the back of his neck, right where the brain stem meets his spinal cord. 6 New Voicemail. 3 New Text Messages. His thumb bounces back and forth, hovering over the notifications on his screen. Voicemail. Text Message. Voicemail. Text Message. Voicemail. Text Message.

He picks Voicemail.

_ You have six new voice messages. First voice message. _

“Heyy Mike...it’s Brad, you haven’t been picking up and I was just wondering if did something or-”

Poor choice. He didn’t know what he expected. Delete.

_ Second voice message. _

“Dr. Hanlon. This is Detective Lansing. I understand that you’re technically on vacation but I needed your opinion on something-”

This one he sat with for a bit. Vacation was an interesting name for it. His auto-reply response for his email did have the word “vacation” in it, if he was remembering correctly, or maybe it was the phrase “away from desk”. Either way, he wouldn’t exactly consider it a vacation if he was going to a funeral during it. Well, besides that one time in Mexico, but he didn’t count that. Delete.

_ Third voice message. _

“Michael. It’s Anthony. Look I know what you said about not having time but, I really think we could work something out if you’d just give me a chance-”

Anthony. He was cute. If a little stiff. Delete.

_ Fourth voice message. _

“Hello! You have been randomly selected for a cruise to-”

Typical. Delete.

_ Fifth voice message. _

“Michael it’s your father. You’re probably on a plane right now, or screening your calls. But your friend, that Tozier boy. Well I guess he’s not a boy any more…”

Mike freezes. He didn’t know why. It’s not like he wasn’t expecting a call from his father. His dad. It’s dad. He just didn’t expect to be so soon. Maybe he hoped it would come when he was one foot on the plane back to New York.

“Anyway, he said you were coming in for Went’s funeral. I, uh, would like to see you. If you’d be ok with that. I miss your face, kiddo. Just let me know.”

If he’d be ok with that. Why wouldn’t be ok with that? It’s his dad. He should want to see his dad, it’s been twenty years. He should want to see him. He missed him. He should want to see him. 

He doesn’t. Not now. Delete.

_ Sixth voice message. _

“Hey Mike, it’s Barry I wanted to see if you were maybe down for-”

Ugh. Delete.

As he’s about to thumb on his second notification block, the 3 new texts had become 4 in the time it took him to check his voicemail, he sees the familiar glint of two steel gray hard bodied suitcases, each of them having a simple pink luggage tag attached to the handle. Relief. Another obstacle between him and leaving this godforsaken airport. Freedom in the form of sensible baggage. Pathetic, really.

He rolls his bags through the terminal, the click of the wheels against tile ring in his ear. His path from the baggage claim to the rental cars was only minorly obstructed, the meandering crowd tending to divert from his path. A small benefit to his immense size. For once his width and height provide something more than a bruised forehead and slight discomfort when he sits in most chairs.

He walks up to his rental car and remembers that he had some unchecked notifications that needed attending. He slides his phone from his pocket. 5 texts, all from the same person.

**_Richie:_ ** _ heyyyy dr micycle hope i know u just took off can’t wait to see you x _

**_Richie:_ ** _ shit the x was too much sorry doc _

**_Richie:_ ** _ do people even call u doc? Haha idk _

**_Richie:_ ** _ ok so u should be landed about now let me know if u made it safe i know about ur plane thing _

**_Richie:_ ** _ pls don’t tell me u crashed _

  
  


Richie. Probably the only person who could convince him to come back here. He’d been unsuccessful the past twenty years, but not with a lack of trying.  _ This old place hasn’t been the same since you left, Mikey. _ That was his go to. There had been other’s sure, but that one always stood out. Like the same Derry was something worth wanting. Like it was something he missed.

Turns out all Richie really needed to say is  _ Dad’s dead. I need you. Please come back. _

**_Me:_ ** _ Just got to my rental car. Be in Derry in about an hour. X _

**_Richie:_ ** _ sweet!! how hungry are u?? meet at hanscom’s?? _

**_Me:_ ** _ That place still standing?  _

**_Richie:_ ** _ u know of a place that can survive without a good coffee and pancake? _

**_Me:_ ** _ I sure can’t. Sure you want to meet so soon? I still smell like plane. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ i want to see you _

**_Me:_ ** _ Ok, see you in an hour. _

**_Richie:_ ** _ im counting down the minutes _

Mike rolls his eyes as he folds himself into the clean, but old rental Honda Civic. The drive back to Derry is surprisingly uneventful. Mike expected a sense of dread, a constriction in his chest that would be absolutely suffocating. It never came. He then began to wonder if he’d get a sense of relief, a weight being lifted from his shoulders as he passed the  _ Welcome to Derry _ sign. Maybe he’d get a feeling of home, of a welcomed and comforting return. 

He passed the sign. It never came.

Derry is, well, Derry. That was unfair, Mike could see how things had changed. The brick of certain buildings had become cracked and worn. Familiar signs and marquees had been covered up or taken down. The movie theater was boarded up with a sign that said  _ Closed Indefinitely. _ So yeah, he supposed things were different. Shittier. Things were shittier.

Hanscom’s was a restaurant on the edge of Derry’s small downtown. The building was unassuming, four worn walls and roof obscured by fog. Mike would’ve missed it if it weren’t for the piercing neon sign. 

He pushes his way into the diner, the blue fluorescent lights making him squint. He adjusts, realizing that he could probably still navigate this place with his eyes closed. Hanscom’s was a photograph, a time capsule. The jukebox is still in the back corner. The booths still had bright red pleather seats.

His eyes catch the sign.  _ Please seat yourself. _ The place is empty, not surprising for 3 pm on a Monday. His feet carry him to a corner booth, next to one of the big windows. He squeezes into the booth, his knees hitting the underside of the table. He was much smaller the last time he was here.

“What can I get you started with,” a voice cuts through his brief moment of nostalgia. “I just put a fresh pot of coffee on so— holy shit,  _ Mike? _ ” 

Mike looks up. The man is unfamiliar, chiseled jaw and muscular build. If he weren’t in Derry he’d assume that he was one of the men clogging up his voice mail box. They lock eyes. He remembers those eyes.

“Ben Hanscom?” The corners of his mouth pull into a grin.

Ben’s arms extend out, an invitation “It’s me”

Mike obliges, going in for a strong embrace. “I thought you were out in Nebraska.”

Ben pulls back, patting one of Mike’s shoulders before letting go “I was. Thought I’d take some time off of work. Luckily, Mom needed someone to look after the place. She’s in Cabo for a few weeks.”

Mike laughs, sitting back down and gesturing for Ben to join him. “She’s finally cashing in her retirement? Good for her.”

Ben follows. “Can’t say she hasn’t earned it. She’s having a great time, according to the pictures that is.”

He remembers Anne Hanscom. She was tall and always smelled like fry oil and burnt coffee. She also had a patience like no other, seemingly ok with the fact that a bunch of rowdy teens were permanently stationed in a corner booth of her restaurant. 

“So you’re not working?” Mike asks. 

“Well, luckily I can sketch blueprints at home. And like I said, I needed a bit of a break,” Ben folds his arms and leans forward, resting them on the table. “So what brings you back?”

His voice is soft, inquisitive. Mike grinds his back teeth, trying to figure out an adequate answer. It was no secret that everyone thought that time would walk backwards before he willingly set foot in Derry.

He finally settles on “Went’s funeral.”

“Oh,” Ben’s eyes widen, surprised etched on his brow.

“What?” Mike responds, voice even and curt.

“I just, well,” Ben trails off, taking the time to word his response carefully before giving up and choosing a harsh “I honestly thought you’d be happy he was dead.”

Ben scrunches his face, immediately regretting his words. Mike didn’t understand, he wasn’t wrong, not exactly. Mike was genuinely surprised when he didn’t feel the warmth of satisfaction upon getting word of the esteemed Police Chief Wentworth Tozier’s sudden but not entirely unexpected death. Yet, he wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel like a ten pound cinder block was removed from his chest knowing that Went was a ceremony away from being out of his life permanently. 

He doesn’t say any of that, instead he says “Richie needed me here.” 

“Yeah,” Ben nods. “He’s taking it pretty hard.”

“Of course, it’s his father.”

Ben doesn’t say anything more beyond a “Yeah” accompanied with a despondent sigh. The weight of the conversation sitting as a heavy silence between them.

“Excuuuse me gentlemen,” an easy, lethargic voice mercifully killing the awkward silence “I was wondering if any of you knew where I could get some service around here. I’ve been here for an entire  _ two _ minutes and no one has even offered me a menu. Outrageous really.”

Ben turns to the voice, but not before rolling his eyes “Oh Richie, what would our humble establishment do without your business.”

Whatever joke Mike had prepared as a greeting instantly dies on his lips when his eyes land on Richie. He blinks. Suddenly they’re fifteen. They’re in the quarry, waist deep in the warm water below. He blinks. They’re sixteen, in their makeshift clubhouse, laughing quietly at jokes only known to them and taking swigs from the bottle of whisky that Richie stole from his dad’s liquor cabinet. He blinks. They’re 17, the bright lights and the white walls of the hospital are blinding. Richie is crying, his shirt covered in blood that wasn’t his. He blinks. It’s today again. He’s staring in the face of his closest childhood friend and the only thing that stumbles out of his mouth is

“Detective Tozier.”

Richie’s eyes are watery, Mike thinks he may cry. He doesn’t. His shoulders shake as tear stained laugher tumbles from his lips. 

“Doctor Hanlon,” His arms open. “C’mere, man.”

Mike doesn’t hesitate, escaping the booth and wrapping Richie up in his arms. The warmth of familiarity that contained itself in the back of his mind migrates to his extremities, covering every inch of his skin. Twenty years overdue.

“I’m sorry.” He says into Richie’s ear, holding him tight to his chest.

“You don’t have to be. I know how he left things.”

“Not for him, but for you.”

Richie pulls back, his hands not leaving Mike’s shoulders “Fuck, I forgot how big you were.”

Mike laughs, “Look who’s talking.”

Despite being two inches taller than him, Mike wouldn’t describe Richie as small. Richie was broad, his body filling out all 6 feet and 2 inches of him. Mike remembers him as lanky and twig like. Richie spent most of adolescence looking as if he could be knocked over by a slight breeze. Now, he’s one of the few people not completely dwarfed by Mike’s grasp.

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Ben says, pushing himself out of the booth. “You guys need anything?”

“Coffee.” They say simultaneously.

They sit down as Ben scurries off. Mike doesn’t count the seconds they sit in silence. Well, he does, it’s 35. 35 seconds, they sit in silence before Richie lets out a breathy “What the fuck, man.”

Twenty years apart and nothing to say.

They both laugh again, the tension melting as they begin to fall in step. As if they were slowly learning how to become best friends again with each passing minute.

“I just think it’s unfair that you spend a majority of the past twenty years in a freezing basement surrounded by corpses and still look hot. Like what the fuck are they feeding their medical examiners over there? There must be something in the water,” Richie says, hands gesturing vaguely at Mike.

“If there is I wouldn’t know. I have a Brita.”

“Of course. Of course he has a fucking Brita.”

They laugh. Mike remembers that happening a lot. Him and Richie laughing at absolutely nothing.

Seeing Richie again, puts an odd feeling in his chest. It’s a knotted coil nested under his ribcage. In some ways he’s the same kid Mike had grown up with all those years ago. The same bright blue eyes obscured by thick rim glasses. The same mop of wavy black hair brushed no more than twice. The shirts were different, however. Not too much, Richie still had the preference for colorful, almost obnoxious garments. He had traded the usual graphic tee for a more subdued, but still brightly patterned, button down paired with a simple brown leather jacket. After everything, it’s still Richie, just older.

He wonders if he could say the same about himself.

“So how long are you staying?” 

Mike chooses his words carefully, knowing that the only acceptable answer for Richie is  _ I’m not leaving. _ Well, he was always used to being a disappointment, today is no exception.

“I’m on a sabbatical. I’m not expected back in New York for another two months.”

“But you have better places to spend it than here,” Richie says, an undercurrent of bitterness hiding in his voice.

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Mike sighs, “Look, I’m here for you, Rich. You need me here for two months, then I’m here for two months. If you want me gone after the funeral, then I’m gone. Simple as that.”

It wasn’t, but Richie didn’t need to know that.

Richie frowns, “Listen, Mike I-”

Richie’s cut off by the loud bleating coming from his phone. Mike recognizes it as a MIDI version of George Michael’s Father Figure. He’d laugh if it wasn’t for Richie’s brow furrowing as he reads the name on his screen.

“Sorry, Mikey, I gotta take this,” he says, getting up from the booth and quickly accepting the call. “Tozier here. What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

Mike watches as Richie walks out of Hanscom’s and stands by one of the windows near their booth. He paces, shoulders now tense and hunched. Mike could relate, he always looked like that when he got calls from work too. Whoever the Lieutenant was on the other end must have said something extremely concerning because Richie suddenly stops in his tracks. Mike can’t make out exactly what Richie says but his lips seem to say something along the lines of  _ I’ll be there _ before he quickly hangs up and makes his way back inside.

“Sorry Mikey but it seems I’m going to have to cut our little reunion short,” he says, making no moves to sit back down.

“Everything ok? What’s going on?”

“Well, don’t get too jealous, Mikey,” He says with an easy grin. “But it looks like I’ve got a date with a corpse.”


	2. what once was is now decayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again a very special thank you to my beta Kat! 
> 
> I know this fic has an archive warning for Graphic Descriptions of Violence but I do want to put a warning up for this chapter which has descriptions of the bludgeoning and hanging of a seventeen year old. This is a murder mystery so please read at your own discretion!

Richie Tozier could never figure out what to do at reunions. He remembers vaguely of a time where he would be surrounded by aunts of various ages who would worry the skin of his cheeks red under the squeeze of their index fingers and thumbs. By vaguely he means with astonishing clarity. Richie doesn’t think there’s a time where any aspect of his life could be described as vague. No, that’s not right. Lots of things could be vague. Riddles. Travel Plans. The reasons why he was driving Mike Hanlon to an active crime scene.

“Look Mikey, you remember how much of a killjoy West can be,” He says, drumming his hands against the steering wheel as he idled at a red light.

Richie hasn’t been this twitchy in years. No, that was a lie. Richie is what many would describe as a “twitchy guy” always distracting his hands with something. He fiddles with the radio. He’s 16, spinning a pencil in between his fingers. He adjusts his rearview mirror. He’s 15, squeezing hot glue on his desk and picking it off as it dries. He rolls down his window. He’s 13, his index finger easing down on the trigger of a Smith & Wesson M & P 9.

Twitchy. He’s twitchy.

“He’s a coroner, Richie,” Mike responds flatly. His shoulder is pressed against the car door, fingers lazily hanging in the “oh shit” handle above the window. The sleeve of his button down is rolled up. It’s a nice shirt. Pink, faded and well-fitted. Extra stitches at the shoulder, he had it altered. The buttons don’t match, a home remedy. He must wear that shirt a lot. 

Mike. God he hates him. No, that’s not true. A blatant lie, even. No, not even. A lie. That’s it. Richie is lying. What he means is that he should. He should hate Mike. Mike has done very hateable things. That’s unfair. Play fair, Richie. He doesn’t think Mike meant the things he did. No, he knows he didn’t. Richie thinks if he brought up the fact that he should actually be hating Mike right now instead of driving him to an active crime scene, Mike would agree with him. That’s not right. That’s not fair. Richie never played fair, now that he thought about it. He thinks about it often. He could hate Mike. He was allowed to hate Mike. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. Seems a waste after everything. A waste of what? Of life? Of waiting? Of twenty years of phone calls going directly to voicemail? Can’t waste what was already gone. Not life. Not time. Not friendship. He should hate him, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Maybe some things don’t need a why. This does. Richie thinks it does. Maybe it’s Mike’s smile. Maybe it’s the feeling that when Richie looks at him he feels like a kid again, back when being a kid was good, or at least as good as it could be. Maybe it’s Mike's outfit. He could never see himself hating a man who wears pastels.

The light turns green, Richie presses his foot on the gas. “Elected coroner! Guys not even a real doctor. Isn’t that fucked up? Asshole couldn’t tell the difference between blunt force trauma and a pole up his ass and he oversees  _ murder _ investigations. You can’t make this shit up.”

“Please tell me you didn’t bring me along with you to discuss the injustices of electoral politics.”

Those eyes. That look. He’d been made. Why did Richie invite a man he was supposed to be hating right now to a crime scene in some sort of fucked up “Bring your not quite former childhood best friend to work day” event? There was the easy and fairly true answer, Mike was a doctor. A real one. He went to college and everything. Not only that, but for some reason Mike was a doctor of corpses, a Medical Examiner. He imagines Mike in one of those bright yellow protective suits, leaning over a cadaver with a split rib cage. He imagines the cops, speaking to him in stern whispers about things like “cause of death” and “toxicology report”. Did Mike like the cops he worked with? Were they smart enough for him? Did they listen? He imagines Mike in bars, laughing over beers with people who have honorifics like “Sergeant” and “Detective”.

He isn’t jealous. Not fully. Mike can have other friends. Friends that aren’t him. 

There were more difficult answers, obviously. Everything about this was difficult. Richie knew that before he screamed his pleas into Mike’s voicemail, his voice heavy with snot and salt. He knew before his dad’s hand ran cold in his grasp, the sound of flatlining in his ears. He knew as he held his sister in his arms, blood leaking from the joint where her arm used to be.

One difficult answer is fear, or something close to fear. Anxiety, he supposes. Richie didn’t have a disorder or anything. Actually, if he thought about it for longer than a minute, he’d probably agree that he does. He never thinks about it more than 45 seconds though. So, no, he doesn’t have a disorder. He just gets anxious sometimes, like everyone. Nothing special about that. So what if he has the looming, ever present worry that if he let Mike out of his sight for a single moment he’d be on the next plane to New York, never to be seen again for the next twenty years? That is a completely, normal and rational worry for him to have.

The other difficult answer is, well, it’s— what is it actually? His late father would call it an inkling. A hunch. That’s a good name for it, he guesses. A hunch. A swirling pit in his stomach, eating him alive from the inside. Ok, perhaps it isn’t that dramatic. Just a hunch. An itch. Something sitting on the back of his hand whispering  _ Bring him with you. _

“The only injustices around here are the things that I did to your mom last night, Doc.”

He laughs. Mike does not.

“You know your boss isn’t going to let me anywhere near that crime scene, right?”

Ah yes, that pleasant obstacle. A delightful rule of beautiful inconvenience. The one that says “you’re not supposed to bring civilians to crime scenes, especially not murders— no it does not matter if the civilian is a doctor why would it, Richie?”. Richie was never one for rules, ironically. Some would say unironically. He would. He would say that. One would think that being the son of the town’s chief of police would mean that Richie was genetically predisposed for keeping order and keeping quiet. Those who know better, however, would disagree. It wasn’t like he was a serial petty criminal in his youth. You know, besides the underage drinking. And the smoking. And the weed. And the parking lot hand jobs. Besides all of  _ those _ things, he was the perfect picture of a model youth. 

His boss was going to kill him. Whatever. Gotta bend some rules if you want to make an omelette, right? Someone said that. He’s certain of it. That’s definitely how the saying goes.

He knows it’s not how the saying goes.

“Listen, you leave stuttering Lieutenant Denbrough to me. Just stand there and look pretty and he’ll have to let you in past the yellow tape.”

Mike raises an eyebrow “Uh huh.”

Richie shrugs his shoulders under his gaze, comedic resolve failing “Ok, so maybe emphasize the Doctor thing when you introduce yourself. Like, really emphasize it.”

“I’ll be sure to wave around my badge then,” He says, unfazed.

“You get a badge?”

“Not like a badge like yours. I mainly use it to scan into the morgue.”

“You have to scan into the morgue? Dead bodies that hot of a commodity in New York?”

“The one’s I deal with.”

Mike is cool, even. Richie can’t quite articulate the new pang in his chest every time he volleys back a perfect pitch answer to his serve. He assumes that the word for it is “frustration”, but that doesn’t feel right.  _ None of this feels right.  _ Someone much smarter and more emotionally intelligent would probably say. Richie is of moderate intelligence in all categories, so he doesn’t say that. Or, well, he doesn’t think that. Richie doesn’t think much of anything really.

That’s a lie. Of course it’s a lie.

“Well,” Richie says as he pulls up to their destination. “Here we are.”

He does jazz hands. It’s remarkably unspectacular.

Here for them is the town water tower. It’s an old, unassuming thing. Some would say that it’s an accurate representation of Derry. Small, ancient and being held together by rusted metal and sheer force of will. Here is the water tower. More importantly, here is the crime scene.

The place is swimming with city and county issued patrol vehicles. The bottom of Richie’s stomach drops out. He didn’t expect the Sheriff’s department to be here too. He would ask Mike if the county usually shows up for these kinds of things, but the words die on his tongue. He really didn’t care much about how things were done in New York, it turns out. Richie realizes this is not a new development.

“Lot of response for a single body,” Mike says, his eyes panning the scene.

Mike’s eyes were expressive and almond shaped. Deep. Like an abyss, or a grave.  _ Like ink on a dollar bill. _ Richie always had a fascination with eyes. Not in a weird way. Well, weirder than most ways. Not weird enough to be a red flag, he should say. Eyes are the windows to the soul. Richie thinks that’s something that people with romantic hearts say. His mom had a romantic heart. He remembers her having one, anyway. The nights where they stayed up too late, watching hallmark movies. She would let him have some of the good chocolate that she kept hidden too if he promised he didn’t tell his father. The memory, like all of Richie’s memories really, tugs on the back of his head, at the base of his cerebellum.  _ Eyes are the windows to the soul. _ That’s probably where he heard the phrase. He thinks his mom would’ve probably said something like that if she weren’t busy being dead. 

“You don’t get this kind of action in New York?”

“I never said that.”

“But it’s a lot of response?”

“For a single body.” 

Mike says that last bit in a way that can only be described as “piercing” and “intentional”. Richie interprets this as one of two ways: One. There’s more than one body here. Two. Mike is implying that he has been at a crime scene where there have been multiple dead bodies. Seeing as his boss only mentioned the one body on the phone, Richie is assuming that it’s the latter.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Richie.” 

Richie sputters “What do you mean?”

“I don’t like the amount of cops here,” Mike says, despite walking closer to the scene.

“I don’t wanna be that guy, Mikey but,” He follows, his and Mike’s strides being perfectly in sync. “You picked the wrong line of work if you feel weird about cops.”

“I feel weird about Derry cops.”

“I’m a Derry cop.”

“Your point?”

Richie barks out a laugh. The doc gets off a good one. He feels as if he focused on the fact that there was a possibility of a joke then it becomes less insulting. Not that it was insulting. Insulting would mean offense, and Richie didn’t feel offended. It’s not like there’s an implication that Richie was a part of something he assumes Mike spent the past 20 years despising or anything. No, certainly not. It’s probably nothing. It’s definitely nothing. It was a joke. It’s funny. That’s why he’s still laughing. That’s why everyone is staring. He’s laughing at a fucking crime scene.

“Detective Tozier!” 

Richie shuts his mouth, his bottom and top rows of teeth clacking together. From behind he can hear the sound of hard bottom loafers hitting gravel, oxfords size 7 if he wanted to attempt at being specific. He usually does, but he feels like it’s cheating. It is cheating. He knows who the voice belongs to. Going by the shoes is just showing off at this point.

“Lieutenant Denbrough,” He greets, turning around. “How’s the stutter?”

If you ask anyone who is not Richie, they would theoretically use the word “intimidating” to describe Lieutenant William  _ Please call me Bill _ Denbrough. It makes sense, he thinks. Denbrough is an enigmatic presence, having drifted into Derry about 5 years ago from Los Angeles. His reputation followed, the town gossips all tittering about “that city cop Denbrough” who, during his time as a detective for the LAPD put away some high profile criminals. Serial killers with names like  _ The Brentwood Butcher _ or  _ The Van Nuys Villain _ . However, Richie is 6’2” and the good Lieutenant stood stiffly at a slightly above average height of 5’7” which really took the edge off of being in the presence of a man who went face to face with a chainsaw wielding maniac and lived, apparently. 

Richie was sure there were other things about Lieutenant Denbrough that he’d put in the  _ intimidating _ column as opposed to the  _ absolutely adorable _ one. There was the whole “he’s your boss” thing that people who are not him would care about. If he took the time to think about it, Richie would say that he really never cared for authority. He blames it on the years of youth he spent sneaking out past curfew or smoking weed at the quarry. He does not take the time to think of it, however, because the irony is not lost on him and if he were to take the time to think about it he would have to deal with the fallout of realizing that he’s wasted the past 20 years of his life and then he would probably start crying despite not having cried in the past five years and who really wants to ruin a streak like that, certainly not him.

“P-persistent. As always. How’s the therapist? S-still ignoring her phone calls?” Denbrough pushes out.

“What can I say? I like playing hard to get.”

“Not hard enough, apparently,” he directs his eyes at Mike. “Last I checked you’re not s-supposed to bring p-plus ones to crime scenes.”

“What about Medical Examiners?” Mike fires off, pulling out his badge. “Dr. Mike Hanlon, OCME”

Denbrough takes the badge, giving it a closer look “You’re a long way from New York, Dr. Hanlon.”

“You know sometimes I just get the urge to stop in to see how this place does police work, just to remind me how good I have it. Keeps me humble,” Mike responds, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, do you get the sense of satisfaction before or after the detectives over at the NYPD plant evidence?” Denbrough says, handing the badge back.

“Oh, I usually get around the same time you get yours, when your first responders contaminate the crime scene.”

There’s a rumbling in Richie’s chest as he watches the exchange. He doesn’t put a name to it, not yet. The only thing he could compare it to is the feeling you get when you drunkenly watch two people playing ping-pong that are extremely good at the game.  _ Serve. Receive. Volley. Volley. Volley. _ Mike’s arms are crossed, his shoulders rolled back as if he were trying to stretch every one of the 76 inches that make up his height. It’s as if the answer to the question  _ what is he so big for  _ was  _ this, specifically. _ Denbrough is more reserved, leaning back and keeping his hands in his pockets. Yet there’s something similar in the pull of their mouths and the brightness of their eyes.  _ They’re enjoying this. _

The name of the feeling Richie is looking for is pure, unbridled glee.

Despite the enjoyment the exchange gave him, Richie knew where his loyalties lie.

“Come on, Lieutenant can’t you just make Mike a consultant or an honorary deputy or something?” 

Denbrough shifts, “Tozier why don’t you make your way up to the s-scene, I need to have a few words with Mike-”

Mike interrupts “It’s Doctor.”

Denbrough falters, closing his eyes and inhaling through his nose before saying “I need a few words with Doctor Hanlon.”

Richie and Mike turn to look at each other. Twenty years apart, but somehow easing into the careful telepathy cultivated by 15 years of knowing one another. 15 years of having to speak in ways that only they could understand. 15 years of secrets. 15 years of lies. Richie raises an eyebrow, a question.  _ You ok with this? _ Mike flicks his eyes over at Denbrough and shrugs.  _ Not like I have a choice. _ Richie nods.  _ You’ll be fine. _ Mike rolls his eyes.  _ I know. _

“S-scene’s up at the top of the water tower. Uris has already begun processing it, don’t keep him waiting.”

“Ok! Ok! I see when I’m not wanted,” Richie holds his hands up in surrender and backs away from the two of them. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Richie ducks under the bright yellow  _ Crime Scene Do Not Cross _ tape.There was only one way up to the top platform of the water tower: a thin, rusted ladder. Richie is amazed it was still standing. He thinks that about a lot of things, the water tower, the town, himself. Still standing, despite years of erosion. He climbs. He’s fourteen, halfway up the ladder in the dead of night. Mike’s furious whispers of  _ hurry, before someone sees us _ ringing from the rungs below. He climbs. He’s seventeen, tears stinging his eyes as the fabric of his two sizes too small suit stretches and strains as he ascends. He’s at the top, the climb fading into the back of his memory, as all things do.

“Stan the man, how’s it hanging?” He greets as he navigates the platform. It’s narrow, the only thing keeping Richie from fully tumbling off onto the ground below being a single handrail.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Stan replies, his gaze not moving from the clipboard in his hand. A white sheet with something human shaped beneath it lie at his feet.

Richie likes Stan. The two of them have been colleagues since Richie clinched the Detective position and Stan got hired for a cushy position at the county’s forensics department.. He remembers being thirteen, the two of them leaning over a vivisected frog in their science class. Stan was the only one whose stomach didn’t turn at the concept of amphibian dissection. Richie threw up twice that day, ironically. As a youth he was sensitive, often succumbing to nausea when feeling overwhelmed. Now, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all. Well, anything beyond the anxiety, but he doesn’t count that. Obviously. Should he start counting that? What makes a feeling count? If he thought about it for more than a minute, he’d probably have an answer but he aborts that thought process after 16 seconds, so he doesn’t.

“Depends,” Richie leans against the rail. “Would you have laughed if it was?”

“Considering that I had to cut the victim down from here? No,” He looks up from his clipboard. Richie winces under his gaze. “I’m guessing by that reaction, it wasn’t a joke.”

Stan is one of the only people in Richie’s life that could ever make him feel unsure. He thinks it’s just the nature of their relationship, knowing too much while still knowing nothing at all. If Richie’s relationship with Mike is a steady push and pull, then Richie’s relationship with Stan was running headfirst into a brick wall. No rhythm, no step, just quickness and collision. Richie likes Stan, however, he is unsure if Stan really likes him.

“Why don’t you give me the rundown?” 

Stan nods, “Our victim is Adrian Mellon, age 17. Cause of death appears to be repeated blunt force trauma.”

Richie inhales through closed teeth, “Shit, he from around here?”

“The wallet on him had his Derry High ID in it.”

“Of course it did.”

Stan continues, “He was found at 1:15pm by a maintenance worker doing his weekly. He saw something hanging from the platform and went to investigate. You can probably figure out what happened from there. Some deputies and I cut him down from the platform, but it was easier to keep him up here for now. We’ll have to figure out a way to lower him down, however”

Richie nods understanding that- wait, hanging? Hanging from the platform? He blinks.  _ Seeing as I had to cut the victim down from here. _ That’s odd. Richie rewinds. Cause of death was repetitive blunt force trauma. Richie fast forwards. There’s only one way up here. Was he carried? He had to have been, right? How else would he have gotten up here? Richie pauses. Unless Adrian climbed up himself, why would he do that? Did he know the person? If so, did he trust them? Why the water tower that doesn’t make—

“Hey,” Stan says, snapping twice in front of Richie’s face. “Let me finish before you enter your mind palace or whatever the hell you call it.”

Richie smiles “I actually refer to it as going into Sicko Mode, I think it gives it a bit of a cool factor.”

“Tozier, you’re a 38 year old cop from rural maine, nothing you do will give anything a ‘cool factor’”

“You’re so mean to me Stanley, keep going and I may pop a stiffy”

“Maybe wait until you’re out of the active crime scene,” Stan responds blandly, unfazed.

“How long has he been up here?” 

“Good question. Body temp was 55 degrees, that’s with the windchill we’ve had for the past two nights though. Rigor mortis has dissipated, but there’s no bloat so I’ll say time of death is somewhere between 16 and 36 hours ago. That’s just a rough estimate. He could’ve easily been up here for three days at the most though.”

Richie cocks an eyebrow, “Why the tight window then?”

“No one’s reported him missing yet. It’s Wednesday. If a kid disappears for three days you think no one’s going to say anything?”

“Depends on the kid, I guess.”

Richie worries the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Shitty situation. He supposes that’s a part of the job, showing up to the aftermath of shitty situations and trying to make sense of them beyond saying  _ well that’s shitty. _ Seventeen. Richie was seventeen once. That’s how time works, or at least that’s how Richie thinks time works. You’re an age and then you’re not. You’re a certain type of person and then you’re not. You’re alive and then you’re not. Adrian Mellon was alive and then his head got bashed in and he got strung up from a water tower. Or did he come up to the water tower and then his head got bashed in? Why the water tower? Why here of all places? Adrian is dead. The kid is dead, Richie. His body is mangled and you’re thinking about the water tower. But why? Why was it this way? Richie can’t stop him from dying but he can figure out why he and Stan are standing up here and not somewhere else.

“Why the water tower, do you think?” Richie asks, eyes dancing about, scanning every inch of the platform.

“You’re doing it again,” Stan huffs.

“I’m just saying Adrian could’ve been strung up from any tree. Not like whoever did this had any shortage of them,” He gestures vaguely at the forest below. “It would’ve been easier than whatever they did to get him up here in the first place. Also, why the fuck would he bludgeon him, right? Like they got him up here, yeah? The advantage of the water tower, is the water. Adrian wasn’t drowned.”

Stan sighs, he’s done this before. Richie doesn’t stop unless you play along “There was no sign of water damage. Skin was taught and his clothes were dry,” He crosses his arms, pulling the clipboard to his chest “Though I suppose it makes for a good hiding spot.”

“You must suck at hide-and-seek then,” Richie laughs softly. “Maintenance does inspections once a week. Body’s basically out in the open. He would’ve been found, easily.”

“Maybe the killer didn’t know that.”

“Would you go through the effort of killing someone and stringing them up here and not doing any recon?”

Stan sighs again, with feeling “I suppose not.”

“So why the water tower?” 

“I don’t know Richie, I’m not a detective. This line of thinking is about my pay grade.”

“You make more than me?”

“And yet.”

Richie holds back a huff. Stan never liked to play. His time as a detective could easily be described as playing a game of tennis by himself. No, that’s not a metaphor for masturabation. Well, it could be. Ok, maybe it is. Not in this context, however. Maybe in this context? No. Not in this context. What was he thinking about again? Tennis. Solo tennis. Serving against a brick wall.  _ Serve. Wall. Too hard. Serve again. Wall. Too much to the left. Serve. Wall. Volley. Wall. _ So on and so forth. He’ll toss an errant thought into the air.  _ A crime of passion.  _ Then another.  _ It was the husband. _ They’ll both be wrong. He’ll try again.  _ The body was moved.  _ That one may be right. He doesn’t mean to make it a game, it just happens that way. He doesn’t mean to make it a joke. That’s just what he is.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Stan asks, looking over the handrail.

Richie turns, following Stan’s eyeline. Denbrough and Mike, still in the same place as he left them. Standing two feet apart, tugging at an invisible rope. Denbrough had his hand up, his index finger pinched against his thumb, his wrist bouncing as if he were using his hand to punctuate each word. He steps closer to Mike with each word.

“D-Doctor Hanlon, you know I really respect your work,” Richie says, doing a pitch perfect impression of the Lieutenant.

“It’s not fun when you actually read their lips, Tozier”

“Since when do you care about fun, Staniel?”

“How can you even see that far?”

It’s a completely valid question. Many  _ how _ questions that pertain to Richie are.  _ How can you see that far? _ Training. Lots of it.  _ How were you trained? _ His dad would make him do glorified seeing eye puzzles for hours on end and if he got any wrong then he wouldn’t get dinner.  _ How did that make you feel? _ Determined and hungry.

“I didn’t think he’d actually come back,” Stan muses. “Strange seeing him again.”

“What makes you say that?” 

“He didn’t come back for the wedding, or the girls.”

Richie forgets that he wasn’t the only one Mike left behind. They’re fourteen, Richie laughing at Mike and Stan’s matching khaki uniforms. They were the only two losers in town to Eagle at that age. Richie never understood what the big deal was, he could use a knife and identify poison ivy too.  _ Do a good turn daily. _ Look what that got him. An ignored wedding invitation and two twin babies with a missing uncle, or something close to an uncle he supposed.

“He did send us a Vitamix, though. That was nice.”

Oh, and a Vitamix. So maybe things weren’t that bad. 

“You think Denbrough is going to recruit him?” Stan asks.

Richie scrunches his face, thinking on it “No. Recruiting implies that Denbrough has a choice.”

Denbrough huffs, pointing at a smirking Mike’s chest.  _ You follow my lead. Understand that, Doctor? _

“You think he met his match?” The beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corner of Stan’s mouth.

Richie considers it before landing on “Mike’s way out of his league.”

A laugh escapes from Stan’s lips “You’re right, they’re not even playing the same sport.”

It’s not long after that Mike is ducking under the tape, a self satisfied smile etched on his face.

“So what’s the situation,” Mike asks after an uneventful climb to the platform.

Stan fires off the details he gave Richie, the perfect picture of professionalism. No mention of missed weddings or holidays, however Richie feels that Mike will be getting a very loaded invitation to dinner with little room to refuse. Their rhythm is different, a bit stilted yet still retaining the soft familiarity. Mike interrupts Stan’s gentle prattle with questions like  _ Rectal temp? _ and  _ Any signs of skin blanching? _ Stan doesn’t falter, answering the questions with ease.  _ 62 degrees.  _ and  _ No, but there is post mortem bruising _ . Stan has his questions too. The primary one being  _ Autopsy? _ Which causes Mike to answer through gritted teeth  _ Under supervision of Lieutenant Denbrough _ .

“So, are you two ready to look under the sheet?” Stan finally asks them.

Richie and Mike move simultaneously. A deep inhale followed by a curt nod. Stan mirrors their response before kneeling down, deft fingers pulling back the sheet. Richie and Mike follow, finding places where they could feasibly kneel down to examine the body.

Richie blinks, every detail of Adrian Mellon’s face being burned into his retinas. He never really got over it, seeing bodies. It’s not his first murder, not by a long shot. About 21 years too late for that one. Yet, there’s a part of him that trembles and falters at the sign of the course. Maybe it’s vicarious movement, twitching and feeling for the ones who can’t. Maybe it’s rejection, the idea of someone alive with excited movement being suddenly stricken to a brutal stillness being something that truly repulses.

Richie looks up, “What’s your prognosis, Doc?” 

There’s a knit between Mike’s eyebrows. They’re twelve, laying on the floor, a collection of puzzle books spread between them. The usual things, sudoku, crosswords, detective riddles. Looking back, Richie realizes why the two of them didn’t have very many friends that weren’t Stan in middle school. 

As they examine Adrian’s body, they fall into the same rhythm. Just like they were kids, whispering over puzzles.  _ What's a 9 letter word for not aware of or not concerned for things occurring around you? _ Oblivious.  _ What gets wetter the more it dries? _ A towel.  _ Why would he have dirt under his fingernails? _ He was dragged.  _ Where do you think the bruising on the arms came from? _ Post-mortem, probably from transport. He wasn’t killed here.  _ What about the bruising around the neck? _ From the rope. He was hanged after he died.

“There’s nothing more I can tell you,” Mike relents. “I won’t be able to get the full story without an autopsy and a tox screen.”

Stan nods, writing something down on his clipboard “I can get the tox screen scheduled. Did Denbrough tell you where he wants you set up?”

“He wants me in the police station’s morgue.”

“Ah yes, the world’s dreariest basement.”

Richie cuts in, “That’s weird. Denbrough usually sends bodies to the county morgue.”

“He wants to keep an eye on me,” Mike says through a tight smile.

“Did he pay extra for the strip tease?”

“Beep Beep,” Mike and Stan say simultaneously. Old habits really do die hard.

They don’t waste time, they were losing daylight and the environment really didn’t enable a thorough investigation. Stan says he and the county deputies will find a way to transport Adrian’s body to the station. Richie and Mike agree to meet him there. They assume that Denbrough would be finding his way over there too.

They go back the way they came, Stan going over to talk with the Sheriff’s department as Mike and Richie fold into Richie’s Vista Cruiser. 

They don’t talk on their way to the station. What would they even say?  _ Hey, real fucked up that this isn’t the first time we’ve seen a murdered seventeen year old. _ Or maybe a  _ Does murder make your skin crawl like it does mine? _ Richie already knows the answers to that are  _ Yes.  _ and  _ Sometimes  _ respectfully. 

“I got a bad feeling about this, Rich.”

“It’s a murder? Are you supposed to be feeling good about it? If so, I’ve been doing this job wrong for about 15 years, then,” He laughs. It’s forced.

“I’m just thinking about the type of person who bludgeons a seventeen year old and hangs him from the town water tower.”

“Murderers are sick people, Doc.”

He rolls his eyes, “Obviously. I’m talking about the planning behind it. Sure, let’s say someone theoretically had a good reason for killing Adrian Mellon. Why the rest of it? We both climbed that ladder. Adrian’s what? 130 pounds? Why go through the trouble of getting him up there?”

It was a good train of thought. Circling back around to the  _ why. _ Why do any of this really? Richie rewinds, Stan’s  _ Though I suppose it makes a good hiding spot _ rings in his inner ear. If anything, it made the opposite of a good hiding spot. Dangling out in the open. The killer had at least a 16 hour lead, sure, but what if the inspection was on an earlier day? What if someone saw the body from the road? Maybe that was the point. Maybe— 

_ A message. _ The answer hits him swiftly and suddenly. Like a train or a four door sedan. Something strong and reliable, like a Honda civic or the one that barrels through a red light, slamming into Mike’s side of his car, causing the Vista Cruiser to spiral off the road and slamming into a tree.

The metaphor is lost on him. If it were a metaphor, instead of another link in a chain of bad luck that Richie calls his life.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Sing Along by Sturgill Simpson
> 
> Come chat with me on twitter @chernobrough
> 
> Or go check out my AUs @aberration_au @LosersClubL and @HeadGhosts_AU

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Title is from Bilgewater by Brown Bird
> 
> Follow me on twitter @chernobrough and yell at me about Hanbrough or maybe take a look at my smaus @aberration_au and @LosersClubL


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